


The Sweetness of Victory

by Maidenjedi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-The Red Woman, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne, sworn sword of Lady Sansa, and the immediate aftermath of the rescue</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetness of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> A little post-episode madness, because I couldn't get the image of Brienne pledging to Sansa out of my mind. Short and cold.
> 
> Just the one bit, for now.

There was no easy way to clean her sword in the snow, and what she wouldn't give for the green meadows of the so-called Sapphire Isle right then.

But Oathkeeper shone anyway, the scant winter light darkening the blood, the Valyrian steel refusing to allow anything foul to remain for long. Though Bolton blood fairly dripped into the snow, Brienne held the sword before her and said her sacred vow to the last Stark standing.

-

They could not linger. Bolton patrols would follow within hours.

"The hounds," murmured Theon, the low moan of dread seeping through his careful tone. "It is worse."

Sansa was calmer, but cold, so cold. Her lips were a shade of purple seen nowhere else but the delicate silks of King's Landing; her hands shook in her wet cloak.

Brienne and Podrick assessed the surviving Bolton horses; one was worth taking, the others Pod ran through with his blade. Theon would ride alone, Sansa with Brienne, at least until they found shelter and Sansa could warm herself.

Brienne's cloak would have to do for the moment. She gave it to Sansa without a word, and Sansa, still shaking, still reclaiming her poise, took it with only the slightest hesitancy. There was no question of leaving her wet cloak, or shedding anything else; it was important to minimize her scent on the trail.

They rode until nightfall, and camped deep in the wolfwood. Brienne allowed a small fire, on the grounds of warming her lady liege; Theon bit his lip in consternation but said nothing, pacing the perimeter in his anxiety.

-

The next morning was brighter, though that gave little comfort to wanderers and escapees who might benefit more from snow and storm. There was no food, save hardtack from Podrick's saddlebags, and that shared between four was a morsel. 

"North to the Wall," mumbled Theon to Brienne, as she pondered the small morning fire and their trajectory. "Jon Snow."

It meant almost nothing to Brienne, until Sansa spoke up. "Jon Snow is my half-brother. He is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I...we...that's where we decided to go."

Theon looked at her in alarm, and Sansa raised her chin. "We were going there when the Boltons attacked," she said, giving Theon an inscrutable look.

Brienne could think of nowhere else to go; she had not thought where to go, with Winterfell under siege. She agreed, the Wall was the best place.

Podrick demurred, but only to Brienne and then only when they were off, their fire and scat buried in the snow. "My Lord Tyrion, he...Thorne is not to be trusted."

Podrick was particularly ineloquent, nervous in victory, but Brienne could pick out what he meant to convey. He was saying, they had potential enemies waiting for them at Castle Black.

But if Jon Snow was Lord Commander, Brienne calculated that the risk was worth it.

Podrick had no argument for that, and on they trudged, north, ever north.

-

A village kept them overnight; it had been recently abandoned or raided, but Podrick and Theon had searched the premises. It was spooky, being so quiet for even winter in the North, but it was clean. 

Sansa welcomed a bed, privacy in which to divest herself of the wet clothing and wash, even with lukewarm water. Brienne took the opportunity to wipe down Oathkeeper, with a cloth found near the hearth in the small inn or house they'd chosen. 

Theon and Podrick kept watch. It seemed Theon in particular did not sleep; Brienne was hesitant to find out why that was, though it proved useful in its way. Podrick had not been able to break himself of his habit of nodding off an hour before his watch had ended; Brienne thought those very words and took them back in her heart, striving for new phrasing.

It was a long night, however warm and comforted the travelers were. Out in the dark, a wolf howled, then another, and another. 

"They do not call it the wolfwood for no reason," Sansa said to Brienne, as they bedded down for the night, Sansa in a real bed, Brienne on a floor pallet.

"No," said Brienne, at a loss. The howl of the wolf sounded so mournful. Brienne did not ask if a direwolf's howl was the same.

-

They arrived at the Wall after two more days journeying, eating bark and drinking melted snow. Sansa's face was gaunt, but somehow more regal, as it reminded Brienne of Lady Catelyn in the Riverlands.

Determined. Unafraid. Relentless.

Brienne wished nothing more than to protect that face.

And she had another test, that morning at the Wall.


End file.
